


You, Him.

by queersorcery



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Boys In Love, Character Death, Confessions, M/M, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 15:01:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2585699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queersorcery/pseuds/queersorcery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're thirteen and holding up a boy with golden hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You, Him.

You’re thirteen and holding up a boy with golden hair. His legs shake and so do yours, but your feet are steady and your heart is set so you keep taking steps. He groans again and you refuse to glance down. Refuse to look on bruises and blood and things that should never dare to go near a face like his. It’s when he starts to cough that you decide to stop, eyes cast wearily to your house that’s only a few more miles away. But he’s crying and you can’t stand it, won’t stand it, so your crouch down. You take his bruised hand and hold it in yours, but that’s all you can do. You wish and wish for a superpower, to take the tremble from his bottom lip and to make him forget bad people and bad words, because boys with golden hair and eyes like the ocean never deserve that kind of life.

 

You’re fourteen and sitting in the warmest room of the house. Your hands are balled into fists and your heart is clenched so tight you could scream from it. Your mom potters around, her watchful eyes keeping themselves at a careful distance from where you sit. She’ll ask about it soon, she always does. _It’s what mothers are for, Jamie_. You glance at her every few seconds, almost wishing she would just say it out loud. If only she could take this stupid thing away. If only she could throw it into the garbage, make it forgotten like scrapped knees and bad colds. But this isn’t a cold and you can’t push it away. It burns and it bites. Drags at your insides and makes you feel like you’re floating all at the same time. Finally she kneels down beside you, the flowered apron you saved three months for folded carefully on the kitchen counter. She smiles up at you and it breaks you. You say his name and it’s all too much. But of course it’s enough for her and she takes you in her arms, buries you in her acceptance and you wish that made it all okay, wish that it was enough to make the pain that doesn’t hurt disappear.

 

You’re sixteen and he’s kissing you. It’s mind blowing and unimaginable and you could drown in it. He holds your hand and you cling to him, drag it to your chest and make him feel the storm that is your heart. He smiles into your mouth and you wish you could bottle it, wish you could take it home and keep it for sleepless nights and dreaded mornings. It fixes everything and you’re hysterical from it, laughing without noticing and pressing so hard against him that he must think you’re insane. But he presses down on you, pushes you to the ground and takes that position that turns your thoughts to fog and sets the wind on full. He grins down at you and you feel your heart stop from it, feel what your mom used to describe after dad died with her eyes coming back to life and her lips set to a now forgotten smile. So you vow to never let the golden haired boy go, to never let him see what the world is turning to and how bad you ache from the knowledge of it all.

 

You’re twenty eight and falling. The wind tears at you and drowns out your useless screams, carries you down and drowns you in forthcoming death. It burns your skin and chokes your breath, dragging you further and further away from the boy with golden hair. He screams and you catch it in your dying heart. _Bucky_. It dies in the howling wind and so do you, lost to the world and to him, forgotten to the world but never to him.

 

You have no age and the knife goes in clean, comes out stained. He doesn’t fight it and neither do you. His eyes remind you of something. Of the ocean, of nights spent laughing and wishing that the sun would never break you from him. But memories mean more punishment and so you push them away, lock them in a place of life and living. He grabs your hand and you flinch. His palm is warm; hand calloused from the heavy shield he had earlier cast aside. He clings to you and you try not to let it all come bubbling to the surface. It’s locked and you’re safe and he will die. You’ve done your mission and he will die. You’ll stay trapped and he will die. You’re crying and his breathing is slowing, fighting for a place in the world that’s already beginning to forget him. But not you. Never you. You cling to his name and he speaks yours. _Bucky_. It tears at your mind and you let it, wish for it to kill you, to take you where you’ve sent the boy with golden hair.

 

You’re thirteen and dragging him up a set of chipped steps. He’s coughing and you’re wheezing, all those years spent in track now useless thanks to this mess of scrapped limbs. You get him to the door and prop him against it, laughing as he curses you for not giving him that piggy back ride he had begged for two miles back, _you jerk._ You find the key easily, press it into his soft hand and tell him that he can open the door himself. He glares at you as you take a step back, arms crossed and smile plastered on. It takes him nearly five whole minutes to fit the key into the rusted lock and turn, his body nearly toppling forward as the door swings open. You catch him just in time, arms wrapped tight around his waist and hands pressed into his sides. You carry him to the nearest sofa and lower him carefully; eyes set to find any signs of pain. But he just stares back, those two blue eyes taking you in and never setting you free. It’s only when you have your hand on the door that he calls out, throwing his name out into the open and asking for yours in return. You smile and turn your back on him, throwing it into the wind that’s just starting to pick up. _Bucky_.

**Author's Note:**

> all mistakes are my own (unfortunately) but yeah if you liked it why not follow me at queersorcery.tumblr.com


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